Chapter Seven

The thunder rumbled low in the distance, a heavy drumroll that shook the windows and the walls, rattling the thin panes of glass in their frames. Rain lashed against the house like a thousand tiny fists, and the room was filled with the steady hiss of water meeting earth. I watched Adam talk to Nana, his voice low, almost lost in the sounds of the storm. He stood close to her, leaning in with a kind of reverence, the way someone might lean toward a delicate flower, afraid it might wilt if they got too close. He was good at that—making himself seem small when he wanted to, humble even, and I hated how much I liked that about him.

I tossed the last log onto the fire, the wood crackling as the flames licked hungrily around it. Nana turned to me, a cup of cocoa in her hands, her smile soft in the glow of the firelight. "Oh, I do love a warm fire on nights like these," she said, her voice calm, timeless. Her words seemed to fill the room, pushing back against the sound of the rain, making everything else feel far away. I nodded, trying to play it cool, but my heart stumbled a little as Adam came closer.

He sat down on the three-seater sofa, his gaze flickering to me for a heartbeat before landing on Nana, who settled herself into her rocking chair—the one that was always hers, always creaking with her gentle rhythm. I hesitated, my fingers warming against the ceramic mug in my hands, and then I walked over to the sofa. I sat beside him, close enough to feel the heat of his body, far enough to keep myself just outside his orbit, longing without surrendering.

Adam took a sip of his cocoa, his eyes grazing mine for the briefest of moments, and then, almost as if the glance had never happened, he turned to Nana. "Do you often do this?" he asked, his tone polite, curious.

Nana chuckled softly, her eyes bright, twinkling with a light I rarely saw except on nights like this when the past seemed nearer than the present. "When I was younger, my father would light a fire on rainy days," she began, her voice weaving a tapestry of memories. "He'd pull out the old quilt and tell us stories of the past. When I had my Thomas, I carried on the tradition—"

"Thomas?" Adam asked, his brow furrowing slightly.

"Yes, my Thomas," Nana replied with a soft, wistful smile. "My son, Julie's father. He was a soldier. He died. After that, it was just me and Vivian, my daughter-in-law, on this farm. Vivian died while giving birth to Julie, and now it's only me and my little girl here."

A stillness settled over the room, a heavy quiet that even the rain couldn't quite pierce. I felt the weight of it in my chest, a familiar ache. Nana rarely spoke of my father or my mother, only in moments like these when nostalgia softened the edges of her grief. I could see that Adam had noticed the shift, the way the air seemed to tighten, the way the light seemed to dim just a little.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he murmured, his voice gentle, almost a whisper.

Nana waved a hand dismissively, but her eyes were warm. "Oh, it's okay, dear. I made peace with that a long time ago. I've had a wonderful life. I'm just happy I got to see my little girl grow up. And even if I join my Thomas, she'll still have Joe—that is if he doesn’t see the pearly gates before I do." She giggled, a sound that was both tender and bittersweet.

"Who's Joe?" Adam asked, and I felt a small cringe ripple through me. I had been afraid of this.

"Joe's my uncle, I think," I said, trying to keep my tone light, casual.

"So he's alive? I haven't met him."

"No, he's dead," I replied, glancing at Nana. "Nana tends to forget that."

"I do not!" she huffed, a little indignant. "Honey, one day you'll understand."

I rolled my eyes but smiled at her. "Joe is my mother's older brother. My mother's family died in a car crash when she was six. They never found the bodies, but she was at school then, and Joe... Joe died later."

Nana leaned forward, her eyes narrowing with a fierce intensity. "I know you might think it's just the ramblings of an old woman, but trust me, Julie, one day when you need it the most, you just—"

"I just have to send a letter to the numbers on the graves," I finished for her, my voice carrying a hint of exasperation, but beneath that, a flicker of something else. Worry, maybe. Fear. Nana had started saying this since I was fifteen, right after her first stroke. She'd been in the hospital then, and those were the first words she spoke when she woke up. Since then, she hadn't let it go, repeating it like a mantra, like a secret she needed to share.

Nana sighed, looking at me with that knowing gaze that always made my stomach twist into knots—a mixture of dread and hope. "Well, I'm going to bed," she said, standing up slowly, her hands trembling just a bit. "I'm not as young as I used to be." She looked at me one last time, her eyes glowing, as if to say, I know what I'm doing. And I felt it again, that twist of emotions. Dread because Nana always seemed to see right through me, hope because she was giving me space, giving me a moment. "Sweetie, you'll show our guest to the spare room. You two enjoy your cocoa."

The silence stretched between us as she made her way up the stairs, her footsteps slow, deliberate. It was awkward at first, the kind of silence that felt like it could break into a thousand pieces if either of us said the wrong thing. And then, Adam spoke.

"Starlight," he said, his voice low, almost a murmur, and my heart did a little flip at the sound of that name, the way it rolled off his tongue, the way it felt like he was claiming a piece of me just by saying it.

"Yes?" I breathed, not quite trusting my voice.

"Your grandmother," he said, hesitating for a moment, "is she okay?"

I shrugged, my fingers tracing the edge of my mug. "I don't know. She's fine, I guess. It's just... she still believes Joe's alive."

He tilted his head, studying me. "Do you believe it?"

I shook my head. "No. But I know the numbers by heart."

"Numbers?" he asked, leaning in just a little, curiosity sharpening his features.

"Numbers on my mother's grave," I explained, the words feeling heavy in my mouth. "Her gravestone was vandalized a long time ago, and there were numbers on it. A post address, really. An old one. She believes it's a sign. I tried to send letters when I was young."

"And?" he prompted, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Nothing happened. No letters, nothing. But it makes her happy, so I memorized it. It's engraved in my mind, right beside her smile."

Silence again. I shivered, the room feeling colder than before, and Adam noticed. He stood up, and I watched him, his movements deliberate, purposeful. He walked over to the basket by the stairs and pulled out the last quilt, throwing it over me, his eyes soft, a quiet smile playing at his lips. He sat beside me again, closer this time, his hands finding mine, pulling me toward him. "You're cold," he said softly, as if he needed to justify the touch, as if he needed an excuse to close the space between us.

And I let him. I leaned into his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my cheek, a warmth spreading through me, a quiet, peaceful kind of joy. I smiled to myself, feeling the doubts dissolve, fade away like the last echoes of the storm outside. Adam liked me. He really did.